


Nick

by Severina



Series: Alphabet Soup [14]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: 1_million_words, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 10:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4873912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So yeah, blood didn’t bother him. But that was before he met John McClane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nick

**Author's Note:**

> Written for prompt "N" at LJ's 1_million_words A to Z Challenge.
> 
> * * *

Matt has never really been bothered by the sight of blood. He finds it rather fascinating, actually – the texture, the smell, the changing colour depending on the depth of the wound. He supposes it was a matter of necessity – as a gangly pre-teen he was more than accident prone, and for a while scraped knees and elbows were the rule rather than the exception. Also cuts and bruises. And then there was the concussion. By the year he turned twelve he had been taken to emergency so many times that the ER docs just starting calling him "That Kid" – as in 'That Kid's back again' or 'What has That Kid done this time?'

And of course there was the spectacular wipeout over his handlebars that resulted in the tiny scar between his eyes, a bone sticking rather crookedly out of his forearm, a sheet of blood covering most of his right side, and a whole lot of weeping and wailing from his mother in the waiting room. He still cringes at the memory. 

So yeah, blood didn’t bother him. But that was before he met John McClane.

Now, he grips the thin fabric curtain around John's bed in the emergency ward hard enough to make the round metal hangers squeal on the rod. And maybe it's that noise that causes John to look up, but it also might be the weird huffing whimpering totally embarrassing sound that comes out of his throat when he sees the sheer amount of blood dripping from the gash on John's arm. 

"Hey kid," John says mildly.

Matt lifts the hand that doesn't have a death grip on the curtain, and tries to speak. He knows his mouth opens, but all that emerges is another mortifying whimper. It might by the first time in his life that words have actually failed him. 

John follows his gaze and glances down at the mile-wide slash that's ripped apart his bicep from shoulder to the bend of the elbow, then looks back at him. John's brow furrows, and Matt realizes he's still staring open mouthed and pointing at the wound, like maybe John hasn't realized that his left arm looks like it's been mauled by Wolverine and needs Matt to point it out.

"Don't worry, kid," John says. "It's just a scratch."

Matt blinks slowly, and is finally able to close his mouth. He still has to swallow dryly a couple of times before he can get his mouth to work, though. "A scratch," he repeats.

John lifts the shoulder that isn't been held immobile. "Barely a nick."

"A nick?" Matt repeats incredulously. The word seems to be enough to open the verbal floodgates, and when John just stares blandly at him, he releases his hold on the fabric curtain with enough oomph that at least two of the metal rods snap and the curtain sags at one end. He's taken two steps into the makeshift room before he even realizes he's moved, bringing himself even with the side of John's bed. "A nick is something you get _shaving_ , John! You know what you do when you get a nick? YOU PUT A GODDAMN PIECE OF TOILET PAPER ON IT. That's what you do when you get a _nick_ , McClane!"

The doctor looks up then, his expression almost as mild as McClane's but his lips pursed. His hands still on the meat of John's arm, his fingers hesitating in the act of adding another jagged stitch to the wound. "If you can't calm down, sir, I'll have to ask you to leave," he says.

"Ask me to—" Matt splutters.

"It's okay, doc," John says. "Kid gets a little excitable."

Matt throws up his arms. "Excita—"

"Understandable," the doctor says, "but there are other patients to consider."

"If I didn't have to come down here every other goddamn week—" Matt starts.

"I think it might be the caffeine," John says to the doctor as he bends back to his work. 

Matt watches the needle pierce John's flesh, flicks his gaze back to John's face. John looks as though he's watching a mildly interesting episode of Property Doctors, not being jabbed with a five inch long spike while blood gushes from his body like Old Faithful. 

"Does he drink a lot of soda?" the doctor asks.

"Monster, Red Bull," John clarifies. "Those energy drinks. I tell him they'll fuck up his insides, but does he listen?"

Matt slumps against the side of the bed. "You bastard."

John slants a smile at him them, shifts just a little so his right shoulder rubs at Matt's hip. "It's gonna be fine, kid."

Matt manages a wan smile back, but most of him is still focused on just how much blood is pumping out of John's arm and dripping around each tiny crooked stitch. Thinking about how often John puts himself in harm's way every time he leaves their little house, and how the blade that ripped up his arm could have easily been buried in his chest instead. Realizing that while he lazes around working on coding or napping on the sofa or playing Halo John's life could be leaking out on the pavement in front of some drug den or terrorist hideout. 

Before, he'd thought the worry and the stress was part and parcel of loving a cop. But it doesn't matter – cop or mailman or office manager. Or stupid accident prone kid. All the blood in the world doesn't matter until it's staining the skin of the person you love.

He's _so_ going to have to call his mom later and apologize.

"Promise me you're being careful," he murmurs.

"Got a good reason to," John answers. "Now." 

John's right hand grip is not quite as strong as his left. And maybe John's just a little more affected than he lets on, because there's a slight tremble in his fingers before they wrap around Matt's hand. His lips are dry when he lays them against Matt's knuckles, and Matt closes his eyes and holds on tight. Does his best to ignore the sound of needle puncturing flesh, and the slow steady drip of John's blood pattering on the floor.


End file.
